


A Job Well Done

by CullJoy



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Condy and Mindfang are mentioned but not in the story, F/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, POV Second Person, Tentacles, Underwater Sex, its almost a bit in dubcon territory buuut yeah, lusus on troll hot xxx action mmmm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 11:36:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7436292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CullJoy/pseuds/CullJoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You feed her. She eats. She doesn’t eat you if you do your job. Yeah...fuck your pheromones. This job is easy, and you refuse to make it harder for yourself."</p><p>Dualscar is an Orphaner. Orphaners feed the Empress' lusus. Sometimes Orphaners, specifically named Dualscar, have uncalled for shenanigans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Job Well Done

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TriadicUniverse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriadicUniverse/gifts).



> "The man's occupation is the feeding and care of a tentacle monster, and yet there is a distinct lack of Ampora flavored tentacle porn in this fandom. The responsibility falls on you, Dear Gifter, to fix this..."
> 
> Gosh, so this is for Drone Season 2016, and I'm a tad late with finishing this because of irl, but I hope this is up to par for TriadicUniverse!  
> Never wrote something like....this before, and it's been years since I posted a fanfiction on the internet. Lets see how I did, hm?
> 
> Quick note to TU: Dualscar has no issues breathing underwater at all. The wordings probably really fucking funky, but it's the same as running a mile (in bed haha) and then having to breathe a good bit. He's a good, healthy fish. Just a bit excited.

\--

On the night you had been given the title of Orphaner, trepidation with idea of controlling everyone’s fate alongside your own was unavoidable. The job was and still is simple enough; kill lusii, shove the carcass into the direction of voracious, impatient jaws, and come back from the dark waters to drown in your collection of rum. Easy as sliced crust, right? Well, yes, if done correctly whenever the thing got hungry. One small slip of schedule and it’s like cutting the wrong wire. Goodbye, Alternia. Universe. The real killer wasn’t this terror camouflaged in dove white, but by Orphaner Dualscar. Biggest fuck up in paradox space. Give this joke a clap.

 

Tch, they wish.

 

Luckily you, _the_ Orphaner Dualscar, know how to keep your head high, dignity in check, and your fear no more important than very dirt scrapers you were protecting. You just wish you could fire a headshot at the underlying paranoia likewise.

 

At least during the time that you’ve been doing this, you’ve grown fairly use to being punctual. Perhaps this lusus has grown comfortable to your constant visits to feed. No longer did her jaws snap short of your retreating legs, nor did her long tendrils try to coil the nearest, troll sized distraction into a crushing sleep. Sometimes she would even just watch you as meat was shoved in her direction before you swam back to your anchor, limbs lax and eyes with fuchsia dashes staring in almost a curious fashion.

 

Long story short, after sweeps you’re probably the longest living Orphaner. In fact you’re probably the only troll she really encounters due to the Empress’ timely schedule in eradicating a pesky shit blood. So, yeah. Maybe this ugly broad of bulges likes you and can appreciate another lonely soul. Once upon time an unsanitary limb of hers curiously touched your face, probably making up for the lacking Empress’s contact, and you gave it an awkward pat back while stiff as a board before she let you leave. Yeah. She _totally_ likes you.

Speaking of broad of bu- wait, no. Speaking of Broadening Bay of Bevwitching Beauty™.

 

You wonder if _she_ appreciates your fine efforts (outside of that name being one of your best works of fishy affection). Especially since you're even doing this during your mating cycle.

 

The Empress is always a hard nut to crack in terms of getting recognition, even for a job as hard as yours, one that nobody but you understands. Though with the fact that she hasn’t culled you for flat out complaining at points when you see her, you can tell that deep down in her twisted collapsing and expanding bladder based aquatic vascular system, she cares. She cares because she gives you a look that speaks of wanting you to leave from her throne block and continue to make her life easier, because she gives you a thin-lipped smile when you talk to her that says "Wow, Dualscar, thank you for gracing me with a few precious moments of your presence." She talks about how Orphaners aren’t supposed to survive this long and yet, _somehow_ , you’re still here. That right there lets you know that at some point, you both will be in for the long haul together.

 

Sadly, enough of about that. This is about that god awful beast, prior to the fact that tonight while in your heat you have to go feed this thing an albino, wild feline resting dead by your side as you shred the last of your armor, usually doing so because your swim pants underneath allow you to not sink. Are there safer ways? Yes. Does the Empress enjoy watching you and past Orphaners squirm with her sadistic demand? Probably.

 

Your skyhorse lusus, well and alive, rests on the ship and away from the dangerous waters for the time being, a job well done in helping you to retrieve and shoot down your new catch, even while your nook distracts you with daydreams of being filled and...

 

…What?

…

Okay, fine. You suppose you should elaborate as to why you’re doing this when your nook is hotter than the Sufferer’s charred wrist.

 

Heat is an unbearable agenda brought upon most trolls in their general, respected lifespans. It could prove to be a useful situation for those lucky enough to be approached by the drones during a time of genetic sacrifice. Though it is not helpful when an Orphaner just needs to do his fucking job and barely wants to leave the ship. Not helpful at all.

 

You have gone through a few options in the past to make your life easier three times a sweep: sending seadweller rookies instead (some of them returned, no worries), taking itchy suppressants, and letting yourself dream in your free time about what COULD be of you and your bay.

 

Yet tonight, your crew is in the nearby town, you’ve run out of suppressants, and you don’t think the Empress would be too kind to your “tmi bullship”. The idea of blowing off steam with a slave had come to mind earlier, but it was brushed off. Like hell if you think any garbage hue is sticking _their_ bulge in your royal cavern for a game of role reversal. Fucking disgraceful, and that’s how disease catches.

 

Hell, you even tried to contact the eight eyed freak show about helping you. Though she found the situation simply hilarious before ignoring your plea in the most “h8ful” fashion possible to spite you. Hah, funny! You should really consider your relationship with her!

 

So as usual, you’re punctual, with a side of fucked.

 

Oh, _you wish_.  

 

Gracefully kicking the lusus through the waves, you submerge yourself and it’s slightly better. Your pan fights to ease shaky thoughts from your restless form as you swim and push the body, any sweat wicked away by the vast ocean that hugs around you. It’s soothing actually, even as you near a lone, giant silhouette floating some distance beneath your ship; it’s only you two. Any other gill-breathing pest would be a fool to stick around, so you fill in the gap and swim down.

 

\--

 

‘ _There she is, the mutated squid…_ ’

 

The Speaker of the Vast Glub’s bobbing limbs and orbish body stick out a sore thumb, white hue slightly lit below the moons. Her beak, clean of previous blood, is pointed up in your direction. You’ve clearly been spotted, and the reality is that this is a pants shitting situation.

 

Luckily, you two have silently agreed to cut the crap.

 

You feed her. She eats. She doesn’t eat you if you do your job. Yeah...fuck your pheromones. This job is easy, and you refuse to make it harde- fuck, wrong direction.

 

Lost in thought, you swim above and past her before catching yourself, the water soothing your head and nook (pardon, body) to the point of guiding your attention from the culling machine. She doesn’t do much, since you’re still here and not late, but her tendrils are swaying and slow dance almost in a confusing gesture.

 

‘ _Fuck…._.’ Man, you need to swim at attention. No getting distracted when the universe’s parasite could cry like an impatient wiggler and cull you all. Your close distance probably wouldn’t make a pretty death either. Luckily, this monstrosity has a mouth where its waste chute oughta be, smaller, so you simply swim down and pretend that you just need the exercise.

 

You’re able to get closer with carcass, but it’s only more work pumping your legs and working your gills, so exhaustion will be hitting soon. Gl'bgolyb’s eyes blink as you near, and her beak parts in expectation as you’re quick to swim a bit closer to before letting out a bubbly grunt, shoving the purrbeast toward the mouth and letting gravity complete the rest.

 

This is the part where a seadweller does himself a favor and starts swimming away so he doesn’t have to see the gross chewing of fur and meat, because gross. The olive is already mixing in the blue ocean water before your head turns, but that’s all you do despite feeling like there’s a stare burning into the back of your head. The swim, the pushing, the launch off of that body and the overall fatigue of before begs you to take a breather, head swimming (hah, you should use that one next time try to make Makara crack a smile) as you rub your temples and let your gills flex, legs sore as you take a moment. Though not as sore as your nook and bulge.

 

As if we must elaborate that for the hundredth time.

 

Why not, considering it’s the _worse_ thing you’ve had to deal with in forever and you’re losing your mind. The water has only worked for so long, and your body is neutrally cool down under. Too hot for your likes. Skin is still buzzing and itching with need for physical touch, and your lower regions are only clean because of the water washing away evidence of impatient, rich material; as long as you remain off land. Great, except you’re a captain, role model, and not a fucking flounder who should be dripping from the nether regions, most importantly.

 

‘ _This is most ridiculous thing I’ve had the grace to deal with…_ ’ the thoughts are poisonous sarcasm, irises piercing at the darkness below from internal frustrations. Fuck doing this job, screw Mindfang for being a condescending bitch, and god, Empress please jus-

 

_Shit._

 

Your questionable thoughts sober up when a white ghost brushes against your cheek, instinct making you tense because _vwvwvwhy_ did she just touch you, oh gods.

 

You shift to look behind, and she still looks puzzled, if not intrigued with her pale eyes, staring you down heavily as two more of her tinier tentacles curious brush against your sides, figuring you out. For a moment you fear that perhaps you’ve loitered too close, allowing her to finally have the proximity of chomping on you, her interest led from the remains of a olive-stained body now floating toward the sea floor. Though outside of noticing how you aren’t dead yet, the touches against bare skin and thin swimwear is….nice, even when she brushes at least once where your bulge is halfway peeking behind your pants (a small, quaky wince escapes).

 

It’s your rough skin against the slimy, velvet tendrils. Her freakish eyes, while forever blank as a board, almost have a sense of realization, and she continues this odd contact as they coil around you. There should be a freakout, and the texture is so startling contrast, but you don’t really hate it at all. Against your current sensitivity it’s soothing the grating itch that’s been bothering you since you woke up that night, and she does this for a good minute. Maybe two. You’ve lost count because it feels so, _so_ great...and then she starts to move her grips.

 

Hm. This is only going to escalate, isn’t it? The fact you’ve not pulled away because this lusus’ tentacles feel nice against your heated body is only a sign up for more fuckery.

 

There’s a unique noise. As if someone were tickling your fins with secretive, assuring whispers, and it lulls you into allowing your body to go slack as she continues to let her limbs pet you down, white against grey. Holy shit she’s way more chilled than you right now and you might just be purring in the depths of your chest, eyes falling partially closed as your focus stirs. You weren’t exactly finding enough care or effort to keep yourself afloat, so there’s silent gratitude when those tentacles slither around your waist and keep you from meeting the darker waters far below.

 

Far...far below...farther. A bit farth- fuck.

A tentacle trail down and against your crotch; you don’t have the willpower to pull away or ask too many mute questions.

 

The white noise of the ocean surrounds you both, but otherwise it’s quiet, you’re alone, and a set of limbs tug at your swim pants, another bringing you closer to her massive form. You’re bit nervous from how close that beak is, but Gl'bgolyb works as if she’s concentrated on you...for some reason. A reason which should seem obvious for all the wrong reasons.

 

Can...a lusus be aware of a troll’s cycle? Your own didn’t seem to question your state outside of a few concerned snorts. In the end maybe getting eaten by Gl'bgolyb would be less humiliating than being put on death row for getting screwed by the Speaker and living to tell the tale, because you’ve seen enough East Alterian pail content to know where this is going.

The twinge of worry is washed away thoroughly as that garbled whisper offers a tone that sedates you again, and you wonder where it comes from. Lidded eyes glance to the lusus for a moment again, before yet another noodly appendage rubs against your now naked crotch.

 

You’re going to have to run back into your quarter’s quickly after this.

 

Distorted noise of surprise and pleasure escapes, water vibrating past your fangs. You can’t moan correctly, and that’s fine (to save your image) but your body clearly makes up for it as a tingle runs up the spine. Fins flicker and gills twitch as moisture flows through them in laps, your mouth parted in awe as the situation continues. Those tentacles hold your wrist together and your ankles apart, and you tell yourself it’s for the sake of holding you up. Yet your naked form is caressed still and the slimy, soft touch runs from thighs to torso, scarred face to your firm glute. Only when it brushes against your bulge again, skin to skin, and skids against your nook as well do you finally break because hell. You go through so much, you’re so tired, and that felt _way_ too good. Who is to say that you don’t deserve some kind of relief as a reward, no matter how taboo?

 

No one, that’s who.

 

Because no one will ever find out that The Speaker of the Vast Glub is coaxing you through your heat by pressing against your lubricated nook with a bulge-esque girth.

 

_Biggest fuck up in paradox space._

 

Now your bulge, violet and mucked with pre material, squirms in its own unique way, and her own mirroring tendril coils and squeezes your appendage, making you croon and gills flutter. Huh. You had no idea you could sing like that underwater. Perhaps because this is disgustingly therapeutic. Looking down, it's hard to spot how her limb moves from the tilted position, but you can feel it. Lips parting, pressure building to slip through. Your nook is flushed and yet the overall entrance is loose, empty and aching to be filled. The desperate pain, the torture that’s taunted you since you woke this week, cools further as she presses against your nook more, and more, _further, further, please just-!_

...

Fuck, she's in.

You're fucked.  
Literally.

 

From the surface, there would be a delay in bubbles quietly filtering on top of calm, swaying waters.

Beneath, they're coming out in random burst from gaping jaws, yourself whining underwater and panting for...more water? Fuck, this doesn't make any sense but who cares. You're getting your nook fucked by this horror of terrors and you could care less about how weird your biology will be forever. Like, what are the nubs on your species’ chest even for? Maybe you'll never know, but you do know that it's enjoyed how she gives one of them a slight tweak, pulling another bubbly trill from your protein chute as you clench around her tendril, others holding you and rubbing your side gills. It IS like a bulge, but you have never even felt a toy reach so deep, stretching your tempered walls and tickling your seedflap in no time, in the best way, because you’ve been well since prepared for a release.

 

Luckily you sense no exerting fluids from this beast, so your gene bladder is safe. You actually have never felt safer around this bulge monster in general, and as you look up, she still casts her vision on you, working you through this dreaded cycle as the rest of her larger, giant tentacles droop while she floats. As if she has no reason to be on edge or aggressive. Her attention is on you, in a way that let’s you know, _whispers_ , that you’ll make it through another night. You’ll make it through feeling better than ever, and this is her compromise, her gift from you feeding her, giving her the attention she craves, all of it. You’re unsure how you know this, and the wispy mutters fill the rest of your foggy thinkpan as you reach for a euphoric conclusion, but you just do.

 

\--

 

After waking up, you note a few things. The sun will be peaking over the horizon in a hour. You’re on your boarded ship and your crew is now running around frantically, alarming each other of your consciousness after fishing you from floating beside the ship’s side. To top it off, you’re naked and still wet beneath this blanket draped over you, in front of your lessers, and feeling better than ever.

 

This is an odd combination, but at least this answers your wonder of your...recent feeding being real. Could you perhaps...try that again, on another riled, taboo night with the mother of all lusii? Had you been dreaming? Luckily for you, the answer was obvious. You weren’t.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
You wish you were right the fuck _now_ though.


End file.
